


bubbles and bubbly

by HellNHighHeels



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Time Lords in a tub, because no one else has written bath fic yet and it offends me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-26 09:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14399436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellNHighHeels/pseuds/HellNHighHeels
Summary: “I thought you sent out a distress call?”“I did,” River answers coolly, one of her legs slung over the side of a bath that must be at least three meters wide.His sand shoes squeak against damp stone floor as the Doctor folds his arms over his chest, crinkling his finest suit. The bow tie he saves for special occasions sits a little tighter around his throat as he stares down at River, her mass of impossible hair piled atop her head in a messy bun. Shimmering bubbles cling to her well manicured toes, and he must admit, “You don’t look very distressed.”





	1. Ten

**Author's Note:**

> I figured I might as well consolidate my Tumblr drabbles in one place. Enjoy :)

“I thought you sent out a distress call?”

 

“I did,” River answers coolly, one of her legs slung over the side of a bath that must be at least three meters wide.

 

His sand shoes squeak against damp stone floor as the Doctor folds his arms over his chest, crinkling his finest suit. The bow tie he saves for special occasions sits a little tighter around his throat as he stares down at River, her mass of impossible hair piled atop her head in a messy bun. Shimmering bubbles cling to her well manicured toes, and he must admit, “You don’t look very distressed.” 

 

She hums as she answers, scooping up the fluffy substance just to watch the way it glimmers and pops against her delicate palm. “Accidentally crash landed on their ceremonial arch,” she shrugs, a grin tugging at her cheeks. “They mistook me for their deity. It would have been rude to correct them.”

 

The Doctor feels the tips of his already spiky hair bristle. “I ran out on a dinner party with  _the_  Anastasia for this?”

 

“Oh how  _is_  Annie?” River beams, blissfully ignoring his annoyance. “You can tell her I want those shoes back.”

 

The soaking archaeologist before him shifts, sinking further into her bath. A wave of bubbles cascades over the side, making a frothy puddle on the floor. The Doctor’s gaze shifts back to River, finding her eyes shut, head tilted back. “You said it was urgent.”

 

“It is,” she quips. “My cork screw broke in the landing and I have a bottle of bubbly just begging to be opened.”

 

She nods toward the ice bucket and glasses to the side of the tub and the Doctor can’t help but blink. “I traveled seventeen centuries and sixty-one billion miles to open your champagne?”

 

“Could you be a dear and pour it, too?” She coos, batting her lashes. “Don’t want to get bubbles everywhere.”

 

“I don’t even drink champagne,” he complains even as he reaches into his top pocket for his sonic.

 

“You’ll like this one,” she promises, a hint of something wicked in her smirk. “It has extra fizz.”

 

Lazily, he points his screwdriver at the bottle. The cork explodes with a pop that, for once, isn’t directed at his head. He does as she asks, mostly because he’s found it’s easier this way. Arguing with River never goes to plan. The Doctor fills her glass with a generous amount of sparkling liquid, trying not to think about how he’s upgraded from taxi service to bartender.

 

“Thank you, sweetie,” a velvet voice purrs, and as River leans forward to take her drink, he finds himself suddenly grateful for the mountain of bubbles that engulf her up to her collar bone. Soap and water droplets cling to her shoulders and he finds his eyes lingering just a bit too long.

 

She notices, as she always does, sharp eyes fixed on his as her fingers curl around the flute, pressing the rim of it to devious lips. “Are you going to join me?”

 

“I could give it a try, I suppose,” he shrugs, reaching for his own glass.

 

River leans back, swallowed by bubbles once again, her voice all silk and invitation as she purrs, “I didn’t mean the champagne.”

 

He swallows, throat dry in spite of his new beverage. “You mean..?”

 

He nods toward the over-sized marble tub, and River flashes him innocent eyes. “I’ll behave.”

 

Somehow, he doubts that. “I don’t have swim wear.”

 

He swears her eyes turn a shade greener, the gold around her irises brimming with secrets. “Neither do I.”

 

It should be illegal, that smirk of hers. It’s no wonder an entire planet could mistake her for a deity, not with that all knowing twitch always teasing the corners of her mouth. She has a way with people,  _with him_ , that renders him helpless but to cater to her every whim.

 

“Well?” She prompts, and the Doctor blinks, realizing he’d been hypnotized by the bubbles clinging to the tips of her hair.

 

“I’m not getting naked,” he declares, the authority in his voice betrayed by hands that are already sliding off his coat.

 

A throaty sound that’s equal parts devious and delight spills from River’s lips. “Don’t be silly,” she chuckles. “You can leave the bow tie on.”

 


	2. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t make this for you, you know.”
> 
> An unamused River Song stares down at him, and the Doctor peeks up at her through a mountain of bubbles. He probably should have asked before leaping into her steaming hot bath, but- “You never complained with Sand Shoes,” he pouts. Honestly, one regeneration she’s begging him to get in and the next, she’s sick of him. A lesser Time Lord would take offense.
> 
> “Pretty Boy is fun to make blush,” River huffs out, ridding herself of her robe even as she complains, “You just hog the tub.”

“I didn’t make this for you, you know.”

 

An unamused River Song stares down at him, and the Doctor peeks up at her through a mountain of bubbles. He probably should have asked before leaping into her steaming hot bath, but- “You never complained with Sand Shoes,” he pouts. Honestly, one regeneration she’s begging him to get in and the next, she’s sick of him. A lesser Time Lord would take offense.

 

“Pretty Boy is fun to make blush,” River huffs out, ridding herself of her robe even as she complains, “ _You_  just hog the tub.”

 

It’s hard to feel guilty for intruding on her relaxation time when he’s up to his elbows in soothing, lavender-scented water. He doesn’t know how, but somehow she’s managed to give the water fizz. Tiny air bubbles roll over his body, making his skin tingle, the exposed bits anyway. His swim trunks protect his most sensitive areas from whatever vixen voodoo River has cast on the water. But as he stretches his legs, a pocket of said fizz assaulting his foot and tickling between his toes, he must admit, it does feel rather nice.

 

Beyond the bliss of his bubbly heaven, River’s robe crumples around her feet, a soft thud against tile floor. She looks oddly regal in her state of undress and carefully pulled-back hair. At the reveal of all those golden curves, the Doctor swears the water gets a little warmer. He sinks further into the bubbles, hiding the crimson no doubt creeping up his cheeks.

 

To his great disappointment, River takes up residence on the opposite end of the bath. It’s captivating, the way a woman so bold and shameless can still manage to be coy, how she can bear everything to him and somehow give nothing away. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s seen her like this, she never fails to take his breath away. The Doctor lowers his hands beneath the surface, placing them over his lap lest they decide to wander.

 

He watches silently as River slinks into the warm water, a hum that boarders on indecent escaping her lips as she settles back into the foamy haven. Bubbles fold around her in a sweet embrace, honey skin a sinful contrast against fluffy white. It ought to be a painting, the way her skin flushes from the caress of warm water. The swell of her chest and the way bubbles cling to her skin is a picture that belongs on the Sistine chapel. She looks like nothing short of a goddess, lounging blissfully on a cloud.

“You’re gawking again,” River states, which is rather impressively perceptive of her given that her eyes have fallen shut.

“Am not,” he blusters, but when River peeks open one skeptical eye, he wilts instantly. “Okay, maybe a bit. But you can hardly blame me.”

River closes her eyes again, smug satisfaction curling her cheeks. “You know, if you’re going to shanghai my bath, you could at least make it worth my while.”

“Oh?” he asks, and if his voice is a slightly higher pitch it’s only because he’s having difficulty breathing. There’s a lump in his throat born of both anxiety and anticipation, and the Doctor swallows hard, forcing out the words, “And how do you propose I do that?”

”Proposing already?” River opens those green eyes of hers then, pinning him with devious grin. It makes his skin buzz, or maybe that’s just the fizzy water talking. “You don’t even know who I am yet.”

She never hesitates to remind him of that, forever delighting in that fact that she knows something he doesn’t. “You could tell me now.”

River let’s out a faux gasp, all mischief and no mercy as she purrs, “Spoilers.”

A grin he can’t quite subdue steals over his lips, and he’s about to say something witty and salacious, honestly, he is. Unfortunately, River’s foot finds him beneath the bubbles first, her toes stroking him in a way that’s far from decent. The Doctor jerks a bit in surprise, eyes wide as he does his best to swallow a squeak. Clearing his throat and pretending he hasn’t just sent a tidal wave over the side of the tub, the Doctor slides a damp hand through his hair, pushing back his messy locks.

“It’s not polite to poke people,” he scolds, managing an admirable amount of composure, he thinks so anyway.

River might disagree, given the predatory gleam that’s dancing around her irises. “It’s not polite to steal someone’s bath, either.”

She makes to prod him again, just to watch him squirm. This time the Doctor snatches up the scandalous limb before it can ruin him entirely. “Behave,” he commands, but River’s smirk only widens.

“Or what?”

“Or I won’t pour you any champagne,” he threatens.

River accepts his challenge, taunting him by wiggling her toes once again. The arch of her foot flexes beneath his thumb and the digit burns, suddenly, acutely aware that this is the first time he’s touched her. Not ever, of course. He’s held her hand as they ran and bopped the tip of her nose whenever she swayed close enough to his person. He’s even kissed her once, twice if he counts that time he thought she needed mouth to mouth.

But in here, like this, all he’s ever dared to do is subtly let their fingers brush as he passed her a flute of champagne or kiss her cheek before running off to his next grand adventure. Until now, contact has always been fleeting. He’s never fully been able to appreciate the softness of her skin.

Her feet are daintier than he thought they would be. Everything about her is so extraordinary; he’s never really stopped to think about the normal aspects of her life. It’s all running and shooting and leaping off buildings with her. He never stopped to consider that she went to school somewhere and earned her Doctorate like everyone else. It never occurred to him before, that she grew up somewhere, that she didn’t just swan dive into the universe exactly as she is now.

It never occurred to him that she would have small, ticklish feet. But as he runs his fingertips over the arch of her foot, River convulses, attempting to yank the extremity free. The Doctor’s grip tightens, half afraid she’ll retreat back to her end of the tub, that she’ll pull away permanently and deprive him of her touch until the next galactic catastrophe brings her to his doorstep.

“Professor Song,” he chimes, brandishing a wide, impish smirk, “are you  _ticklish_?”

River levels him with a glare he’s only ever seen her give Daleks. “Don’t you dare.”

As tempting as it is to make her squirm under under his touch, it isn’t worth the threat on his life. The Doctor files the information away for later, still holding her prisoner as he proposes, “Truce?”

River’s eyes narrow, scanning his features for treachery. Finding none, she reluctantly agrees. “Truce.”

She doesn’t try to reclaim her foot from him this time. Instead, she drapes her other leg over his lap expectantly. “Well I can hardly pour you a drink now, can I?” he half-heartedly protests, even as both his hands gravitate toward the pad of her foot, careful not to tickle as they begin kneading softly.

The threat falls on deaf ears, or at least pleased ones, because River offers no complaints, eyes drifting closed and a relaxed hum on her lips as she sinks back into the bubbles. “Champagne can wait.”


	3. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Put this on.”
> 
> River glances up from her book, an intrigued brow arching when her eyes land on the blindfold being thrust toward her. “Why? Is it my birthday?”

“Put this on.”

 

River glances up from her book, an intrigued brow arching when her eyes land on the blindfold being thrust toward her. “Why? Is it my birthday?”

 

It’s not, or rather, it might be. He doesn’t actually know because his stubborn wife has never given him an exact date. The minx he married loves to keep him guessing. He swears she gets her kicks by hoarding information from him, which is why he takes such pleasure in the way her eyes sparkle as he says, “You’ll see. Now be a good girl and put this on.”

 

The stern instruction makes a grin blossom on River’s lips, book closed and forgotten as she stands. “I do love it when you’re in this mood.”

 

The way she slinks toward him causes his insides to tingle, but he refuses to let himself be distracted by those sinful curves. He has a surprise and stripping her in the living room simply won’t do, not today anyway. Jostling the soft fabric in her direction, the Doctor smirks around the words, “Then you won’t mind doing as you’re told.”

 

“Will you make it worth my while if I do?” Her voice is a purr and a proposition as she comes to a stop before him. She doesn’t take the garment from him like he asked, choosing to stand temptingly close instead, her mischievous green eyes eclipsing all else. She’s a scandal, his wife, her lips twitching upward in challenge. The Doctor lets out a good-natured sigh as he folds his hands around her shoulders, turning her around.

 

She complies without question, her skin humming beneath his fingertips. He must admit, it was never this easy for Bow Tie to get her to obey. It must be the eyebrows. He takes advantage of the small mercy, admitting to nothing as he places the silk over her eyes and rumbles a low promise of, “I always make it worth your while.”

 

River lets out a chuckle that’s more devious than delighted. He isn’t quite sure how she does it, how she always makes him feel like he’s at her mercy even when she’s the one deprived of one of her major senses. He pulls the cloth tight, trying in vain to tame her wild hair beneath soft fabric. Once he’s satisfied his resourceful wife won’t be able to peek, the Doctor’s hands abandon their task in favor of caressing River’s smooth shoulders.

 

Her skin is warm and soft and almost as tempting as her voice as she says, “Did you bring the handcuffs, too?”

 

“No,” he admits, a soft chuckle on his lips.

 

River visibly deflates. “Pity.”

 

“Save your disappointment until after you’ve seen my surprise,” he teases, turning her shoulders and directing her down the hall.

 

“You never disappoint me,” she coos in a voice that’s sweet as honey.

 

It’s a lie, of course. With the exception of their first dinner together, he’s really rather rubbish at gifts this go around. It’s hard to compete with his former self, with Asgard and Calderon Beta, with picnics and stars and elaborate gestures. So he decided to win her hearts in other ways. He’ll shower her in little things, a monument of small moments so high it eclipses every grand scheme his former self ever had. She’d slap him if she knew he saw it as a competition, but he can’t help but feel victorious every time she smiles at him the way she did on that balcony. It’s shy and smitten in a way River seldom ever is, and she graces him with it every time he brings her tea or kisses her forehead or holds her hand beneath the breakfast table.

 

Even now, it’s teasing at her lips. He can tell by the way the corners of her mouth twitch that she’s biting back that besotted smile she saves just for him. Beneath that cloth, her eyes are sparkling in a way they never did before. Where once she radiated excitement, where thrill pumped through her veins like a toxin, now she simply hums. Happiness is a slow and steady pulse just beneath her skin. There is no rush or demand and maybe that’s why she’s putty in his hands, why she so effortlessly allows him to guide her around the coffee table and past the settee. The hand he placed on her shoulder gravitates to the small of her back, steering her down the hall. It isn’t until they pass the closet where they keep their ship that River’s head tilts, a curious hitch in her voice as she asks, “Not taking the TARDIS, then?”

 

“Not this time,” he answers, trying to keep his voice flat lest she unravel all his secrets by the smirk on his Scottish mouth.

 

“Probably for the best,” River agrees. “We never get where we’re going when you drive.”

 

“It’s not too late for me to change my mind, you know.”

 

“Don’t you dare.” Her command makes him chuckle. Only River could make indulging her own guilty pleasure sound like a threat.  He continues to guide her down the hall, her smile only slipping when he marches her right past their bedroom. Brows pinched beneath their silk confines and curiosity peaked, River asks, “Not the bedroom either?”

 

“Stop cheating,” he scolds, pinching her side in a way he knows he’ll pay for later. River jumps, swatting and somehow still managing to capture his devious fingers despite her lack of vision. Honestly, he isn’t sure why he bothers trying to surprise her with anything. The stubborn woman is too clever for her own good.

 

“Counting steps isn’t cheating,” River states, placing the hand she captured on her hip. “It’s being resourceful.”

 

The Doctor scoffs, fingers curling possessively around their new home. “Same thing.”

 

“That explains it then.”

 

“Explains what?”

 

“Why the dates you plan always run amuck,” his prisoner quips, and the Doctor snorts.

 

“Nothing wrong with a little spontaneity.”

 

“Says the man who’s burned his way through a dozen faces.” There’s an insufferable, knowing lilt to his wife’s voice, and the Doctor smothers the fondness brewing in his chest with a huff.

 

"I’m starting to regret planning  _this_ ,” he grumbles, and River slows, letting her back press into his front. Her shoulders shimmy against his chest like a cat demanding affection. The Doctor takes the gesture for what it is, an unspoken apology and offer of adoration. His calloused fingers find her shoulders once again, stroking softly down her arms as he guides her the last few steps.

 

Cold tile press against bare feet and River sucks in a surprised breath, features promptly contorting into a disgruntled frown. “The bathroom? Really, darling, this had better be a pit stop.”

 

“Nope,” he chimes, and River sighs.

 

“Talk about getting a girl’s hopes up.”

 

“Hush, wife,” he teases, pinching her bum before leaping out of arms reach. River glowers at where he had been standing but remains where she is. River folds her arms over her chest and the Doctor, regretfully, turns away from her to examine the room. Everything is exactly as he left it, but he fusses anyway, careful not to give anything away as she tip-toes across the bathroom floor.

 

But his wife has never been a patient soul, and when her assassin ears fail to pick up on any clues, River can’t help but blurt, “I’m all for foreplay, honey,” she starts, shattering the silence. “But I tend to enjoy it more when I can see it.”

 

“Just doing final checks,” he admits, and he doesn’t miss the way her cheeks curl. After a century of marriage, one would think it would stop surprising her, but she never fails to flash him a quiet smile when he admits to his need to impress her.

 

When the Doctor is satisfied that everything is perfect, he stands before her, memorizing the way she looks. There’s a quirk in her brow, lips slightly parted, waiting to sass him or kiss him, and he isn’t sure which he prefers. She must sense his presence or feel the heat of his stare, because River sways towards him, a slave to gravity. Even the Doctor succumbs to the pull between them, lifting gentle hands to slide under the blindfold, intentionally brushing her cheeks as he does so. When he frees her of the fabric, revealing bright green eyes and wild curls, River’s face brightens to find him standing so close. Her smile lights up the whole room, and she almost doesn’t even notice that he’s blocking her view. But then she takes a breath, and he must reek of lavender because her expression changes. In a moment, her besotted smile slips, replaced by a flash of seduction, and just a drop of confusion.

 

“I made you a bath,“ he breathes, answering her question before it ever leaves her lips.

 

River blinks back at him in surprise and delight, her smile only growing when he steps to the side, revealing a giant tub.

 

"Exactly how you like it,” he says, half hoping and offering a nervous smile. He’s pretty sure he got it right, anyway. A mountain of bubbles billow over the sides of the bath. Lavender petals float atop steaming water and a bottle of champagne is chilling nicely by the foot of the tub.

 

As River takes in the sight before her, her face softens, eyes drifting back to him. “Not  _exactly_ how I like it.”

 

Disappointment tugs at the corners of his mouth, shoulders slumping because, truth be told, he never did figure out how she gives the water extra fizz. His inscrutable wife refuses to reveal her secrets and the Doctor’s lips part, apology on his tongue when River’s hands find his chest.

 

When the Doctor’s wide eyes snap back to River, it’s not a smile she’s flashing him, too many teeth and far too wicked for that. But it isn’t smug either, too fond, too besotted to be anything but mirth. He only has a moment to blink at her in confusion before she’s guiding him backwards toward the oversized tub. “Needs more Time Lord.”

 

“What does that-“ is all he has time to mutter before the back of his knee collides with marble. The assassin hands on his chest are firm and unforgiving, and the last thing he sees before tumbling backwards is nymph-like glee sparkling in her green eyes.  

 

Fully clothed and floundering in a way he hasn’t since Bow Tie, the Doctor plummets into the tub. A tsunami of bath water cascades over the side, drenching the floor. Lavender engulfs him, soaking him to the bone and ruining his suit. He has half a mind to be cross with her when he feels her leg brush against his. Blinking through the bubbles clinging to his brow, the Doctor finds River standing over him, silhouetted by the bathroom lights. She’s still fully dressed as she slips her other leg into the tub. Water sloshes around them, lapping at his chest and shoulders as River sinks down atop him, straddling his waist.

 

Even in this grumpy, older body, it’s hard to frown with all this River pressed against him. It’s especially difficult when she’s wearing that tender smile she saves just for him, the one he was hoping for. His bespoke psychopath has never looked sweeter as she swipes her finger through the bubbles, scooping of up a dollop of the shimmering bubbles and tapping it against the end of his nose.

 

Her green eyes are brighter than any night sky he’s ever seen, and he’s never felt more like he’s outdone his former self than when River presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and whispers, “ _Now_  it’s perfect.”

 

 


End file.
